When I Was a Robot- Guest Author Seth Calvert

In second grade a friend told me that I had a monotone
voice. The word must have seemed so scholarly at that age. I denied it then but
I asked my parents because I felt a need to know if I really was that
different. I remember my mom telling me yes, I did in fact have a monotone
voice. She may have hedged and said somewhat monotone voice, but the important
thing is that she didn't deny it. I remember exploring possible solutions but
no one could really help me. How does one change the way they've spoken their
entire life? Or at least the part of life one can remember at age eight.

Recently,
the 50th caller asked if I was a robot.

I work at a
call center and I repeat myself a lot, mandatory scripting necessitates that. I
have thanked more than 10,000 callers for calling customer service. I have
given out my first name more than 10,000 times and asked for account numbers
more than 10,000 times. The word myriad comes from the Greek and means 10,000,
which is why it's entered English to mean countless. 10,000 pennies weigh 881
pounds, and would stand 49 feet tall, assuming one could arrange that many
pennies in one single stack.

Callers who
ask if I'm a robot or a real person have a few predictable responses. The most
common is simple surprise and then continuation of the call as normal. In most
cases people have a defined problem, and want that problem dealt with more than
they're interested in some man with a robotic voice. I've had people apologize
for thinking I'm a robot. I've had people imitate robots—I do a much better
version, thank you very much. I've heard people in the background of a speakerphone
say “He sounds like a robot.”

I sometimes address these people
directly. Most seem to think it funny, some sound almost hurt like my monotony
was a deliberate attempt to make them seem foolish.

I admit it:
I sound repetitive when I begin a call. Every co-worker who has heard me
mention my tally of robot-related questions offers well-meaning advice. “It's
your intonation,” a co-worker told me. “It's the way you enunciate and have a
slight pause before giving your name, just like a robot would.”

Another said. “You sound
procrustean.”

The same well-meaning co-workers
laugh when they hear me tell another person I'm a not a robot. Sometimes I
laugh when they laugh and I need to quickly mute my microphone. My supervisor
thinks it's funny.I got her to promise
a robot-themed party when the 50th person asks if I'm a robot. I'll probably
bring in a cake with silver frosting. Coworkers in the call monitoring
department have even managed to catch someone asking if I was a robot. They
suggested my phone system be switched out to see if that helps. I have never
been penalized for sounding like a robot.

My tally of
these calls grows weekly. I've gone four days in a row without being asked if
I'm a real person, and then three callers within two hours will ask me. Even
when I do my best to sound lively or upbeat, someone will ask. It seems to
happen slightly more when I'm tired, but I'll be asked if I'm a robot on days
when I'm practically vibrating with vigor. But in my own head I sound
sing-songy.

In my own head my voice bounces
up and down like a newscaster's.

I feel my throat's muscles
constricting and loosening to bounce my words up and down the bass clef like my
voice is being played by the left hand of a pianist. More succinctly put, I'm
doing everything I can to sound less like a robot.

It doesn't
really matter honestly. I worked so well as a temp that I was actually hired on
permanently. I consistently handle calls in the effective time range. I
actually have a chance to help some people. I've made people's day. More
religious customers have thanked God for connecting with me because I solved
every problem on their account.

Seth
Calvert was born and raised in Minnesota's fifth congressional
district. He has worked as a customer service representative for the
last six months. On average, he is asked if he is a robot ten times per
month. He plans on teaching again in the near future, likely in a
foreign country. Currently he spends his time earning money and taking
care of an aged dog.

Clint Edwards was blessed with a charming and spitfire wife, a video game obsessed little boy, a snarky little girl in a Cinderella play dress, and an angry baby girl. When Clint was 9-years-old his father left. With no example of fatherhood, he had to learn how to be a father and husband through trial and error. His work has been featured in Good Morning America, The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Huffington Post, Scary Mommy, The Good Men Project, Fast Company, and elsewhere. He lives in Oregon. Follow him on Facebook and Twitter.